


The Witching Hour

by Pollydoodles



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollydoodles/pseuds/Pollydoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wakes sometimes, early in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witching Hour

Bucky wakes sometimes, early in the morning. 

It’s not a nightmare, although he has his fair share of those as well. He thinks that, even if he and Steve had just gone to war and come home again, like most men, like they were supposed to do, he would have had those anyway. But no, this is not one of those and he does not jerk awake drenched in sweat, his left arm trembling uncontrollably and his breathing erratic. 

This is more like a tickle in the back of his head, a thought or two chasing around the inside of his mind like a mouse skittering after cheese and he can’t focus on anything more than its disappearing tail. It’s some memory, he knows, that he can’t quite get a handle on – possibly never will; or maybe it’s not even a memory at all, just something masquerading as one. They’re all big on him catching up to the modern era but they don’t seem to realise that sometimes it’s more hindrance than help. Some of the movies they get him watching confuse the bejesus out of him, and that’s before anything even hits his subconscious.

He knows when he gets like this there is no more sleep to be had, and he’s not a guy about to toss and turn wrapped in the bedclothes. Even before – and this is a memory he does have, and is sure of – he wasn’t one to waste time chasing on something that he couldn’t grab with both hands. 

So this accounts for Bucky padding silently into the common room at three in the morning, but not for Darcy who he finds there as well. 

Seeing her sends a jolt of something through him, and, he thinks ruefully, it does kind of underscore how old he really is. Nothing about what she’s wearing is remotely sexy, far from it, yet the simple fact that the girl is in her night clothes short-circuits him briefly because that’s just not how it was done growing up. 

She’s actually wearing a Stark Industries t-shirt that saw better days about five years ago, and has had what his hyper-sensitive sense of smell tells him is something akin to motor oil splashed across it which lets him know that, at some point, it was probably Tony’s and has been re-purposed. She’s also wearing some pyjama trousers which weren’t hers originally either, judging by the way they are slung from her hips and drag slightly on the floor. They have some pattern of cartoon character repeated across the material but he can’t identify what it is. 

Darcy, arms folded tight around herself, bunching the material of her t-shirt, is staring out of the window across the city, still sprinkled with lights even at this hour of the morning and he knows that if they were to step outside, there would somehow still be horns and laughter and noise on the wind. New York – truly the city that never sleeps. 

He clears his throat as he approaches her, allowing his footfall to become heavier as well to tip her off to his presence, and is rewarded with a small smile she throws him over her shoulder, dark hair mussed around her face and remnants of sleep dusting her eyes. Bucky steps into place, not quite beside her, a half step just behind her right shoulder so that if she leans back just slightly she’ll relax against his left arm. 

She does. 

He can hear her breathing, feel the rhythm of it as her back touches his arm. It’s slightly faster than it should be, and he knows now – although he’d guessed already¬ – that she’s awake because of some dream. That this silent meditation on the cityscape is re-setting her brain before she’s able to tumble back to bed and chase sleep again. Bucky becomes aware of his own rise and fall, focuses on keeping an even pace, and notices that before long Darcy’s tempo matches his. 

Small, warm fingers brush against his metal ones and, to his surprise, sneak into his hand briefly. Hot and cold tangle and Darcy squeezes the tips of his fingers with her own before pulling away. She steps back, from the window, from him, and pushed a mass of dark hair away from her face as she does so. He thinks he sees a flash of thanks in her blue eyes but he’s not sure and whilst he can pick up heartrates a mile off, Bucky doesn’t trust himself reading expressions anymore. 

He dips his head to her, like his ma would have expected, and nearly misses a quirk of a smile tugging at one corner of her lips at the old-fashioned gesture. What he doesn’t miss is her lips pressed softly to his cheek, the palm of her hand laid flat against his chest and the brush of her t-shirt along his arm as she stretches to reach. Bucky stills like rabbit in headlights and, all too quickly, Darcy is gone. 

Head still dropped slightly, hair falling across his face, he doesn’t watch her leave but he knows she doesn’t look back.


End file.
